


Blind Nights

by Sonicmeriver (Lakela)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakela/pseuds/Sonicmeriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wonders, like she always does, what would happen if she didn’t make the first move this time. What if tonight she just stood there, listening to his breathing. Would he finally do something? Would he simply stay there all night, awake but not moving?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is, so apologies in advance.  
> Un-beta'd. Mature-ish just to be safe. Nothing too explicit though.

Donna hears the steps approaching. Just like they do every night when she turns the lights off. She hears the door open and the steps get nearer. She feels the bed shift as he lies down next to her and waits.

Like every night, he doesn’t move, but she can hear his breathing get heavier, his heart-beats accelerate. And still he doesn’t move.

She wonders, like she always does, what would happen if she didn’t make the first move this time. What if tonight she just stood there, listening to his breathing. Would he finally do something? Would he simply stay there all night, awake but not moving?

She doesn’t wait to find out. Like the first night he came to her, she reaches out with her hand, trying to find him in the darkness. Her fingers touch skin and she stops. She moves them carefully, feeling the coolness of his skin beneath her fingertips, tracing the outline of his lips and then further down, to his chest.

The first night, she had asked him what he wanted. She had asked him if he was ok. It’s then that she felt the tears with her fingertips, rolling down his cheeks. So she stopped asking and kissed the tears away until there were none left.

He doesn’t cry, now. He hasn’t cried again, but he keeps coming back and she doesn’t ask why. Not out loud.

Like that first night, she finds his lips with her own and kisses him softly. He opens his mouth to hers and she lets her weight rest on him, drinking him in, feeling him beneath her body as his hands come to wrap themselves around her, pulling her down. It’s not always slow and gentle; sometimes, as soon as her fingertips touch him, he’s already on her, desperate, hungry, undressing her, caressing her, sucking, kissing, biting, and not one second after she’s ready for him, he’s inside her, pushing as deep as it will go, as if he could bury himself in her.

Other times, like tonight, he takes his time revering her body, kissing her in the darkness.

Once she suggested turning a light on and he stiffened. And not the good kind of stiffening, either. If she hadn’t quickly disregarded the idea, she was pretty sure he would have bolted in all his naked glory.

He’s never there in the morning when she wakes up and they don’t talk about it during the day. More than once she has wondered whether she’s just imagining things. In the morning, it feels so much like a dream.

But not right now, this is definitely not a dream. It can’t be. It’s definitely the Doctor’s tongue on her skin. The Doctor’s scent all around her. The Doctor’s fingers inside her. It’s definitely the Doctor’s hearts beating against her chest.

“Doctor,” she breathes out.

She regrets it as soon as it’s out because, like every time she says something, he stops. She stays quiet for a moment until he relaxes and starts moving inside her again.

They don’t talk, but it’s more, so much more than just a shag. Because then, like every night, as he picks up the pace, images start flooding her mind. At first only abstract shapes and colours, then images of her, naked or dressed, doing things she remembers doing or in places where she’s never been, and as the bond gets deeper, she sees into his past, his thoughts, and lets him into hers. And sometimes, only sometimes, she also sees the horrors that he’s trying to keep away from her.  

The first time she saw them, she panicked. It took over a month for him to come back to her after that.

But she’s learned to control it, since. She looks for those images now, because sharing them with her, she realised, lifted the burden from him. After a while, those images dissipate, replaced by new abstract more vivid images and with those, comes his release.

The images are so powerful, she is usually brought over the edge with them as well. On the rare occasion when she isn’t, the Doctor takes care of her afterwards. A skilled tongue in the darkness.

The first time he did so, it was a surprise. Yes, she had come to depend on those nights with him. Yes, she needed him just as much as he needed her. But she had thought up until then, he was just doing this for himself. That he needed the company, the release... Why else the darkness? The silence? But he always made sure she let go as well, herself.

After spilling himself inside her, the first time, the Doctor’s mouth reached for hers in the darkness. As her tongue reached his, she realised he was offering her a pill of sorts. A very cold, small rounded pill.

“Contraceptive?” she had whispered, surprised.

He nodded and pushed the pill into her mouth with his tongue. She swallowed it, and with it, all the other questions.

And she knows that’s not her. She asks questions, she confronts, she shouts and she protests. She doesn’t recognize the submissive creature she’s become at night.

But she also knows what she’s afraid of, of course, she isn’t that thick. What they have built in the darkness is so frail, so fragile, she fears a word out of place or a question too many will end things all together. And that’s how she knows this is as much about him as it is about her. She needs this. And she can’t bear the thought of it ending.

Once or twice she has tried to bring this up during the day. She wants, no, needs him to acknowledge what they have, but he resists. He always changes the topic at a thousand words per minute. What he does with his silence during the night, he achieves just as effectively with a torrent of meaningless words during the day. And always, the matter remains buried.

One day, she thinks, one day she will face him with it directly. He won’t be able to evade her any longer.

One day. But not today. Just not today.

 


End file.
